


Little Dot

by YellowMustard



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anxiety Attacks, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Tree Bros, Very Minor, because y'all know i can only write connor if he's s o f t, fluff of the tooth-rotting variety, soft connor, some minor angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-12 03:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19939447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowMustard/pseuds/YellowMustard
Summary: It really doesn’t make very much sense.He thinks about Connor, sees him in his mind’s eye, all leggy and angular like a Parisian fashion model, with those blazing heterochromatic eyes and wild tangle of hair. And he’s just. Evan. He’s khakis and New Balance sneakers. He’s boiled, unseasoned potatoes.He’s plain toast.(Or: Evan's insecure. Connor writes a list)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> yes I KNOW I said I was taking a break but this little guy just came to me on the bus and I just. Had to. Sorry in advance. It's reeeal fluffy. It's probably the fluffiest thing I've ever written, actually. 
> 
> I originally was planning on making this a fair bit angstier but every time I tried it just came out ~soft. Whoops. Idk, I just hope it's OK and semi-in character. I feel like every time I post something I go through the whole thing of second-guessing myself! Bleugh. 
> 
> Still mentally playing around with Collie - I want to have a vague idea of where I'm going with it before diving in. Still a maybe. Watch this space, I guess!
> 
> Thanks again for all the support. It's been like. Actually crazy getting kudos and comments from writers on here who I really admire and look up to. Mental. This little community is just the best. Love you guys <3 
> 
> Trigger Warnings: anxiety attacks/panic attacks described in some detail. If you think this might affect you maybe proceed with caution xoxo
> 
> https://theyellowestmustard.tumblr.com/

* * *

Despite what many people believe, anxiety attacks and panic attacks are not quite the same thing.

They’re terms often used interchangeably to describe a similar feeling, a similar collection of symptoms. Similar, but not the same. For those people unlucky enough to have experienced both types of attack, the differences can be vast.

Evan Hansen is one of those unlucky people, and he knows this all too well. 

Evan thinks panic attacks are made from ocean rips and hurricanes and the feeling of being watched. They come sudden and fierce, and usually with no warning, no trigger. They come with a racing pulse and tunnel vision and cold sweat and the feeling of bile rising in the back of Evan's throat.

Panic attacks are like drowning before even realizing you've hit the water.

Panic attacks are like dying.

And as quickly and unexpectedly as they appear, they're gone, leaving Evan feeling ragged and dazed, like he's been sucker-punched in the gut.

Anxiety attacks, however, almost always begin with an idea.

The barest ghost of a thought.

A thought that Evan supposes most people would brush aside, like an eyelash caught in an eye; a minor irritation, quickly removed and forgotten about. But Evan can't remove the eyelash, the idea. It gets trapped, stuck, and the more Evan tries to brush it aside, the more it prickles and stings, growing and changing, bigger and bigger, infecting everything in its path, until it's so all-consuming that nothing else matters.

For hours. For days. Lingering on and on and on.

Evan honestly couldn’t say which attack is worse.

They both suck.

The stuck-eyelash idea that’s causing Evan’s current three-day-and-counting anxiety attack is about Connor Murphy.

Most thoughts he had were about Connor Murphy, these days.

It’s still fragile, this new thing between them. It’s been four months, and Evan wonders if it should be feeling less delicate, less breakable by now. He wonders if it really is as delicate as it seems to him, or if it’s just his insecurity talking.

Four months ago, Connor had shoved Evan in the hallway, apologized about shoving Evan in the hallway, signed Evan’s cast, found Evan’s letter, misunderstood the part about wanting to be Zoe’s friend, screamed in Evan’s face and bolted, all in the same afternoon.

The following day, Connor had found another of Evan’s letters, crumpled and sticking haphazardly out of his locker. The letter was addressed “Dear Connor Murphy,” and contained a long, rambling explanation of the _first_ letter. Evan had been so sure he’d blown it, so absolutely certain that by trying to explain he’d just made things worse and that Connor would never want to speak to him again.

But Connor had sat at his lunch table that afternoon, just plonked himself down without so much as a “hello”, like he was meant to be there. He didn’t speak a single word to Evan throughout lunch, but right before the bell rang, he’d reached across the table, grabbed Evan’s casted arm, and added ten little numbers underneath the towering letters of his name.

Three months ago, Evan had begun to consider Connor to be his best friend. And it absolutely _wasn’t_ considered normal to spend so much time staring at your best friend’s mouth, or wanting to touch your best friend’s hair, or finding the perfect sequence of words to describe your best friend’s eyes. And Evan didn’t _do_ any of those things, thank you very much, because Connor Murphy was his _best friend._

Two months ago, Connor kissed Evan for the first time.

They’d been sitting side-by-side on a swing-set at some dilapidated playground near Evan’s house. Evan couldn’t remember why they’d ended up there. It had been getting dark, and cold, and Evan had started shivering. Connor had lent him his sweatshirt. He’d told him he looked cute in it.

And then Connor had kissed him.

One month ago, Evan had told Connor that he was in love with him.

He hadn’t meant to do it. It had just sort of slipped out.

It was on Connor’s birthday. Connor had had to sit through a celebratory dinner with his family, but came to stay the night at Evan’s the minute he’d been released. They’d been curled up together in Evan’s bed, exchanging sleepy kisses in the dark. Connor had been lazily running his hands through Evan’s hair, with Evan positively _melting_ into every touch. And, unthinking, Evan had shuffled closer, buried his face in Connor’s T-shirt, just for the excuse to breathe him in, and drowsily mumbled, “Happy birthday, love you.”

The hands in his hair had gone still for a moment, then resumed as Connor had whispered, “Fuck, this is the best birthday ever.” And then, after a moment, “Love you too, Evan. Obviously.”

Strangely enough, it’s the fact that Connor’s in love with Evan that’s now causing him so much grief.

Anxiety attacks almost always begin with an idea. An eyelash of a thought. And once the eyelash-thought is there, Evan _can’t_ flick it away.

And the thought, this time, is simply: _why?_

_Why_ is Connor in love with Evan?

_Why?_ Why _Evan? _It really doesn’t make very much sense. When he thinks about Connor, sees him in his mind’s eye, all leggy and angular like a Parisian fashion model, with those blazing heterochromatic eyes and wild tangle of hair, he certainly _can’t_ picture an Evan standing by his side. In any regard, let alone as his _boyfriend._

He shouldn’t be allowed to even occupy the same _space_ as Connor.

Yes, obviously, they have loads in common. But what drew them together in the first place was the fact that they’re both, well, mentally ill loners. Outcasts.

And Connor’s not going to be that way forever. Evan thinks his whole aesthetic and “fuck the system” outlook will probably make him plenty popular when they start college. And he’s been working so hard on his mental health, too. It’s a big journey, one that might take years. Maybe even Connor’s whole life. But he’s already worked so so hard, and it’s been absolutely incredible watching him heal and grow. Connor is amazing.

And he’s just. Evan. He’s khakis and New Balance sneakers. He’s boiled, unseasoned potatoes. He’s plain toast.

Evan is anxious, stuttering, sweating plain toast.

The idea begins as a simple _“Connor is way out of your league.”_ It soon evolves into _“Why does Connor even love you, of all people?”_ , which is quickly followed by _“Maybe he doesn’t.”_

Then _“Connor is going to leave you.”_

And finally.

_“Connor should leave you. Connor deserves better.”_

And the thought sticks, niggling away at him all of Tuesday, then Wednesday, then Thursday. He crams it down, pastes on a smile, goes to class, holds Connor's hand, laughs at Jared's dumb jokes.

He thinks he's been doing a pretty good job at hiding his three-day anxiety attack, actually.

But then on Friday, Connor's waiting at his locker when he gets to school, arms crossed and wearing an uneasy expression. He's chewing on his bottom lip, his brow furrowed. His eyes narrow, then lock onto Evan as he approaches. He doesn’t look away.

_OK,_ Evan thinks. _So I'm about to get dumped. I'm about to get dumped in the middle of the hallway._

Connor speaks before Evan gets a chance.

"You're being weird," he says matter-of-factly, without so much as a greeting. He doesn't pull Evan in for a hug like he normally does.

Evan feels sick.

"...But...I just got here?"

"Not just now," Connor says, giving an impatient sigh. "For days. What's up with you?"

Maybe Connor's got Evan's heart on a yo-yo string, because just as quickly as it had dropped, it leaps, simply at the fact that _Connor had noticed that he's not OK_.

He truly didn't think anyone had noticed.

Evan manages to shrug halfheartedly, suddenly self-conscious about talking to Connor about this.

And scared.

Because if he talks to Connor about this, Connor will agree that Evan's not enough.

And then Connor will leave.

Connor sighs again, sounding exasperated now.

"Ev. Evan, c'mon. Did I like. Do something, or...?" He's trying hard to sound sarcastic and snarky, but he can't quite mask the insecurity, the fear that creeps into his words.

Evan shakes his head vehemently, because _of course_ Connor didn’t do anything, it’s _Evan_ who’s done something wrong, just by existing in Connor’s life because _he has no right._ Because Connor deserves better. Connor deserves someone worth loving.

"Evan," Connor's saying. "Evan."

Evan feels tears collecting in his eyes. He blinks them back.

“Evan. Ev.”

_"Why do you love me?"_

The hallway suddenly seems very quiet, and when Evan hazards a quick glance around, he realizes they're alone. The late bell must have gone.

Evan couldn't care less about being late.

“…I…what?”

Evan can’t look at him.

"I just. I'm me. And you're you. And. And you could have anyone you wanted, and I know you don't think so but you could, you really could, you're wonderful, you're smart and funny and beautiful and I literally just have absolutely no redeeming qualities like at all, I'm an anxious mess and I'm not attractive and everything about me is just so fucking bland and. And I just. Just."

Evan realizes he's been babbling like an idiot, and takes a deep, steadying breath.

"I just. I don't understand why. You deserve better. You should have...someone better.”

He finally musters up enough courage to look at Connor.

He's more than a little taken aback by what he sees.

Connor looks...distressed? Like...really upset, and almost a little angry. His jaw is clenched and his brow's still furrowed and he's sort of shaking his head in disbelief.

"Evan... for fucks sake, Evan, are you shitting me right now?" He sounds so _appalled_ that Evan finds himself having to choke back the automatic _sorry_ bubbling in the back of his throat.

"Evan, you don't actually, seriously think-- you're a fucking idiot, Jesus Christ. You’re a fucking idiot.”

And then Evan’s being yanked forward by his shirt and pulled into a bruising kiss, right there in the middle of the hallway. Connor kisses roughly, determinedly, like he’s got something to prove, and Evan finds himself struggling keep up with Connor’s almost aggressive pace.

It ends like a panic attack. Suddenly. Leaving Evan ragged and dazed.

Connor sort of shoves Evan away from him, muttering, “Shit,” giving a pointed look over Evan’s shoulder.

Evan turns, and his heart sinks to see Mrs Astor, who is stalking towards them, already having begun her lecture from halfway down the hallway, snippily going on about tardiness and disrespect and late bells and disrupting classes.

Evan's never told a teacher to fuck off before.

He doesn't today either, but he thinks it as hard as he can. Childishly, he hopes she's somehow received the message telepathically.

He throws one last glance in Connor's direction, who's rolling his eyes and already mouthing off, going, _it’s five goddamn minutes, Bertha, chill._

Evan quietly slips away to class.

Evan doesn't hear from Connor all morning. They don't have any classes together until the afternoon, but usually Connor will send Evan a text or three, sometimes between classes, sometimes not. Evan's not sure how he never gets caught doing that. One time, Connor had sent Evan an inexplicable row of alien emojis during second period, and Evan had been too afraid of getting into trouble to take his phone out of his pocket to look. Connor, not enjoying being ignored, had then continued to text Evan every five seconds for the entirety of the lesson. The constant buzzing of Evan's phone in his pocket had made his leg go numb. He'd ended up with 48 unread messages in under an hour, and he's never forgiven Connor for it.

But this morning, he gets nothing.

He still feels sick.

His head swims as he tries to piece together every little detail of everything that Connor had said and done that morning, almost in a frenzy as he tries to analyze what it all means, what’s going to happen next.

No possible outcome Evan comes up with is particularly positive.

At lunch, Connor’s not there. Evan thinks he might puke.

It takes him over ten minutes to formulate a three-word text message.

**Evan:** ur not here??

It feels like Connor types for a million years. Evan stares at his phone, at those little blinking dots, until his vision blurs.

**Connor:** yeah went home, srry. had some shit to think abt x

Evan tries to focus on the little x and not on what “shit to think abt” could mean. He types out a response ( _evrything ok? r u mad at me?? im sorry, I fucked up_ ) then deletes it, then types another ( _just forget everything i said ok I was just being stupid lets just forget the whole thing_ ), and deletes it, then tries again _(i know u deserve better and u should have better but i wish i hadn’t said anythng so just please dont leave me please._ )

He deletes that, too.

**Evan:** ok x

The rest of the school day goes extremely, extremely slowly.

Evan doesn’t hear from Connor again until almost midnight.

His evening has been…complete shit, if he’s honest. His conversation with Connor; the angry, desperate kiss, sneaking away and leaving Connor to deal with Mrs Astor, Connor’s absence at lunch – it’s all only heightened his anxiety attack, turned the volume up to 100. He feels restless and exhausted all at the same time, and the silence of his empty house makes his skin crawl. The TV makes it worse, grates on his nerves like it’s purposely trying to irritate him. Evan finds himself drifting aimlessly from room to room like a ghost.

He doesn’t use the money on the counter to order pizza, but what else is new?

At 11:15, Evan decides to say fuck it, and goes to bed.

At 11:23, Evan bites his cuticle too hard, and it wells with blood. He feels it rather than seeing it; his eyes are fixed on his bedroom ceiling.

At 11:33, Evan replays the entire morning’s events in his mind for the tenth time in the past ten minutes.

At 11:49, Evan’s phone buzzes.

**Connor:** im outside

Evan takes the stairs two at a time and screeches to a halt at the front door. His hands are shaking badly, and it takes him way too long to unlock it.

Evan flings the door open, and Connor’s standing there, in the warm glow of the porch light, picking absentmindedly at something in his left hand. He jumps a little as the door opens, then offers Evan a shy, half-smile.

Something about him looks strangely vulnerable, standing at Evan’s front door at almost-midnight, in sweats and an oversized hoodie. Despite his height he looks…kind of small.

“Hi,” Connor says.

“Hi,” Evan echoes.

There’s an agonizing silence. Connor coughs, and his eyes flit down to his hands, where he’s flipping a folded square of paper back and forth in his palms.

“So,” says Connor, without looking up, “This took me all afternoon. Once I started thinking I couldn’t stop.” He pauses, licks his lips. “Bet you know what that’s like,” he adds, teasingly.

“Yeah,” responds Evan, vaguely, but he’s not entirely sure what he’s just agreed with. His eyes are drawn to the little square of white, flip-flip-flipping between Connor’s fingers.

“You, um. You wanted to know why. Why I’m in love with you.” Connor’s voice becomes resolute; sure. “I’m not sure exactly what I did to make you second-guess—”

Evan opens his mouth to protest this, and Connor snaps “No, shut up,” and he quickly shuts it. Connor winces a little, like he’s kicking himself speaking to Evan so harshly, but he keeps going

. 

“I’m not sure why you…where all this has come from, exactly. But um. Anyway. I wanna fix it, so.”

Connor presses the square of paper into Evan’s hands.

Closes the gap between them to press the gentlest kiss to Evan’s lips.

Takes a little, stumbling step backwards.

“Don’t read it till I’m gone, OK? I have to go. I’m like. Under house arrest. I shouldn’t even be here. So. Bye.”

And with that, he’s gone, taking long strides down Evan’s street alone in the dark, wrapping both arms around his torso to fight off the cold.

Evan realizes he’s walked all the way here. At midnight, in the cold, while grounded.

Evan stares at the paper in his hands, dumbfounded, and pads back inside and up the stairs in a daze.

He sits on the edge of his bed, and unfolds the square of paper.

It’s an unsealed envelope. On the back, Connor’s chicken-scratch handwriting declares: _You’re a fucking idiot_ _❤_

Despite Evan’s racing pulse, he can’t help the tiny breath of a laugh that escapes him.

He carefully removes a single sheet of paper from the envelope. A taunting voice in his head is still insisting it’s a breakup letter. Evan pushes a lungful of air forcefully out of his nose, whispers “Shut. Up.” to himself in the empty room, then looks down at the sheet of paper.

There’s no introduction, no explanation, no “Dear Evan”, just what seems to be a random assortment of words. It’s typed, all aligned to one side, in one big, long column. The font is very small. Evan stares, trying to make sense of what he’s looking at.

It’s a list.

Evan scans the page frantically, as though looking for a punchline. Because it can’t be. It can’t be what Evan thinks it is.

But it is.

It’s a list.

Connor has spent all afternoon writing a list of all the reasons he loves Evan.

Evan’s breathing doesn’t sound right, and it doesn’t quite feel right, either. His finds his eyes flitting across the page as he urgently tries to soak it all in, but soon realizes that the words aren’t in any real sense of order. There are physical features and personality traits and hobbies and interests and odd little habits, all chaotically mixed in together. Sometimes Connor’s added little notes, little specifications or explanations in parentheses, and sometimes he hasn’t. The whole thing is kind of a jumbled mess.

It’s… _wonderful._

Shaking, Evan starts over, reading it properly, in order from the top of the page.

The first thing on the list is:

_sincerity_

Evan already feels like he might cry. He’s one word in, and he might cry.

It’s closely followed by:

_dimples when smiling_

_intelligence_

_emotional intelligence_

This is...astounding, to Evan. He’s always considered himself sort of socially stunted. But Connor loves him for his emotional intelligence.

This list continues.

_laugh (cute af)_

_hands_

_hair (s o f t)_

_skin (even MORE SOFT wtf how is that possible)_

Evan laughs incredulously at this, because _what, no way._

His own laugh sounds weak and breathless and not quite right in the ringing silence. 

_blush (goes up to ears. cute.)_

_jawline (!!!! SOFT!!!!)_

_interest in trees_

_funny!_

_knobbly knees_

_good kisser_

_nose_

_eyes (expressive)_

_kind_

_cares so much. about EVERYONE_

_throat-noise when receiving hickey ("hnngmmmg" ?? idk but it's like. porn.)_

Evan feels his cheeks heat, and an involuntary, flustered sound peeps past his lips.

He realizes that Connor’s spelling of said sound is actually pretty accurate.

Jesus Christ, Connor.

_bites lip when thinking (hot)_

_bites MY lip when making out (even more hot)_

Evan can’t hold back his giggles at this point. He knows he must be blushing furiously, and can’t help but wonder if it’s gone all the way to his ears like Connor says it does.

_considerate_

_selfless_

_eyelashes_

_smells really good_

_shoulders (+ shoulder freckles)_

_park ranger uniform (!!!)_

_integrity_

Evan lets out a shaky breath as he reaches the end of the page, completely overwhelmed with emotion. His face still feels hot, and he’s sure his bottom lip is trembling. He clenches his jaw and swallows hard, trying to get himself together. Carefully, he goes to folds the sheet of paper in half so he can slide it back into the envelope. And it’s only then that he notices.

And lets out a choked, raspy sob, then another.

And another.

Because the list is double sided.

It goes on and on, naming detail after detail after detail.

Some of the things on the list make him break, once again, into teary laughter; near the top of the page, Connor's typed _likes cats and dogs equally_. Other things make him run his fingers over the paper in quiet astonishment, because they're things Connor's never really said (about halfway down: _always growing and changing - not static? Idk but it's cool_ ).

Evan's crying openly by the time he reaches the end, his face a mess of tears and sweat. He’s been so focused on the list he’s not bothered to wipe them away.

The last three lines read:

_you see me_

_you see me but haven't run away_

And finally.

_I just DO._

Something about the punctuation, that little dot, gives it such weight, such a sense of finality. Like reaching a destination after walking for days and days. Evan stares at the little dot for a long time.

It takes Evan an even longer time to stop crying.

Once he’s finally calmed himself down, he peels himself off his bed, refolds the list with painstaking care, and slides it into the little box on his bedside table where he keeps his medication. He wants to keep it safe, keep it close.

He looks at his face in the mirror, and he looks weird, because he can’t stop smiling, but his eyes are bloodshot and still swimming with unshed tears, and his nose is red and raw. 

But it doesn’t matter, because Connor loves him.

With a resolute nod to himself, Evan pulls on a pair of socks, then sneakers.

It’s well past midnight now, and it’s freezing outside, and Connor’s under house arrest.

But Evan isn’t.

Evan’s legs aren’t as long as Connor’s, but he thinks he could probably make it to Connor’s in twenty minutes if he runs.

He’ll try and compose his own list in his head on the way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor has fucked up. Connor is absolutely certain he’s totally fucked everything up. 
> 
> Because Evan doesn't think he's worth loving. 
> 
> And that’s…that’s completely on Connor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was fully intended as a oneshot ngl. But then I got a request for a follow up, and then once the idea was planted it stuck and I COULDN'T LET IT GO.
> 
> So this is pretty much the fault of cecropia! If you haven't read any cecropia fics y'all are missing out, they're like. god tier. go do it. right now. do that before you read this one, actually. 
> 
> Super super fluffy, more soft!connor. sorry (no i'm not)
> 
> No major trigger warnings, connor swears and hates on himself a bit.
> 
> https://theyellowestmustard.tumblr.com/

* * *

Alana Beck has an Instagram account entirely dedicated to bullet journaling.

This shouldn't come as a surprise, really. It's such an Alana thing to do. Connor wants to hate it. He really does. But there's something weirdly satisfying about the aerial shots and clean lines, the rainbows of highlighters all lined up in ROYGBIV order, the delicate loops of Alana's cursive, the milky cups of tea in the foreground.

It's kind of pretentious, but it's...kind of cool, too. Alana's a good photographer, and Connor finds himself double tapping almost every shot.

He'd only just discovered Alana's Instagram Account Entirely Dedicated To Bullet Journaling a few minutes ago. Connor's not really a big fan of social media, ordinarily. Especially Instagram. It all just seems a bit too ‘uncanny valley’, too smooth and shiny and synthetic. Real life isn’t like that; it’s ugly and it’s messy, and sometimes it’s kind of gross, and Connor likes it that way. His own Instagram account sits empty, devoid of even a single post. He can’t remember the last time he’d bothered to look at his feed.

But he needs the distraction tonight.

He digs through the bag of Sour Patch Kids at his side. Licks sugar from his fingertips, brushes the granules from the corners of his mouth.

Another distraction. He’s not even fucking hungry.

Despite his best efforts, he finds his thoughts drifting to a softly rounded jawline and a quivering bottom lip. To bright eyes and twitchy fingers and a shy, boyish smile.

To a long long long list.

A vague sense of apprehension washes over him, settling solidly in his stomach, sickly and heavy. His limbs feel like lead, and his bones ache, but there’s also this uncomfortable, agitated buzzing, high in his chest, burbling in the back of his throat.

It’s unfamiliar and extremely unpleasant, this combined feeling of jittery anxiety and abject misery, and he finds himself wondering if this is how Evan’s been feeling for the past few days. The thought lands with a gut-wrenching thud in Connor’s brain, loud and intrusive, and he suddenly feels nauseated. Completely disgusted with himself.

Connor has fucked up. Connor is absolutely certain he’s totally fucked everything up.

Because Evan doesn't think he's worth loving.

_Evan doesn't think he's worth loving._

And that’s…that’s completely on Connor.

Because fuck, that’s like. Your number one job as a boyfriend, isn’t it? To love your partner, to make your partner feel loved? How shitty a boyfriend must Connor be if he’s making Evan Hansen – gentle, kind, beautiful, _wonderful_ Evan Hansen – feel worthless? What the fuck is _wrong_ with him?

And Evan had said that _Connor_ deserves better? Jesus Christ, he’s got it so _backwards._

Evan deserves someone who’s not so broken. Someone stable and secure and whole.

Evan deserves someone who’ll build him up and dash his insecurities to bits.

Evan deserves someone who will tell him every minute of every day all the things about him that are worth loving.

And fuck, there are…a lot of things. Connor had sat at his laptop for hours trying to list them all, and only stopped when he realized there was only one sheet of printer paper left in the entire Murphy household. He probably could have kept going all night, filled an entire ream.

The list was a stupid idea, in retrospect.

Because who does that? Whose response to “Hey, I don’t feel loved,” is “Welp, here’s a list, I guess’?

The more Connor thinks about it, the more impersonal and callous it seems.

God, he’s a _dick._

And to make matters worse Connor had kind of just… shoved it in his hands, sucked his face off and run away.

Why the _fuck_ had he _done that?_

Evan deserves so much more than a list and a fucking “So. Bye.”

Evan deserves so much more than _him._

Connor gives his head a brisk shake, hoping to jostle his brain enough that the thought dissipates. Tries to tell himself that there's no sense in obsessing over it, though he knows he will anyway.

But it’s done, now. Either he'll still have Evan in the morning.

Or he won't.

_Fuck._

Connor shovels a fistful of Sour Patch Kids into his mouth. It tastes like everything and nothing. The citric acid is beginning to sting.

His skin itches.

It takes a fair amount of effort, but he forces his attention back to his Instagram feed. Zoe posted a selfie just a couple of days ago, and it’s Connor’s duty as her doting big brother to comment ' _ew'_ , followed by a full paragraph of poop emojis.

He skims through Jared’s photos for a while, then back to Alana’s bullet journal layouts. He stares blankly at the bare white glow of his own page. Flicks back to Alana’s.

_Don’t._

He says the word to himself, in his head, as firmly as he can.

_Don’t fucking do it._

Connor takes a deep breath, chokes down a few more pieces of candy, and opens Evan’s Instagram.

It’s the same as it’s been for weeks. Evan’s not really a heavy social media user either, and his page is set to private, so he’s only got a handful of followers, Connor being one of them. There are only four photos on his page. None of them are of Evan.

There’s two pictures of trees, big ones, taken from below to show off the upward stretch of the branches, reaching desperately towards the sun.

There’s one of a cake Heidi had made for Evan’s birthday, earlier in the year, before Connor had really known him. It’s lopsided, the top layer practically hanging on for dear life, with strategic use of sprinkles to mask the patchiness of the frosting. Connor knows a lot of love would have gone into that ugly little cake. It does something warm to his chest when he thinks about it, about how hard Heidi tries.

The last photo is of Connor himself.

Evan had taken it around a month ago, the morning after Connor’s birthday. The morning after Evan had cuddled into Connor’s arms in his too-small bed and whispered that he loved him.

The photo’s filtered in black and white, and shows Connor leaning against the wall on Evan’s front porch as he smokes a cigarette. He’s looking up at the camera, at Evan, through his lashes, with a cheeky half-smile on his face. He’s flipping Evan off with his cigarette-free hand.

It’s…a really flattering photo of him, and something about the framing, the focus, the angle of the picture sets Connor’s heart fluttering. He can’t pin down what it is, exactly. Maybe it’s the way Evan’s focused the camera on Connor’s face, leaving the edges all hazy and undefined, or the way Evan’s purposefully stood at an angle so he’s not casting any shadows that would ruin the shot, or the way the rising sun kind of sets a sparkle in Connor’s eyes that he’s certain isn’t normally there.

Maybe it’s the way Evan’s somehow managed to make him look beautiful, even when he isn’t.

Whatever it is, when he looks at that picture he can just. Feel it. It’s a photo that was taken with so much love, so much adoration. It makes Connor feel a bit weak at the knees.

The caption reads: _this guy right here. he’s my favorite. @conmurph99_

Connor stuffs more candy into his mouth and tries very hard not to cry.

He closes his eyes, but he’s almost immediately flooded with images of Evan in the hallway, flickering and fast, too fast.

Evan, overwhelmed and emotional and just so…lost.

Evan fidgeting with his shirt, refusing to meet Connor’s eyes.

Evan as he stammers through his own self-loathing monologue, the words _no redeeming qualities_ leaping out, black and bold and underlined.

Connor opens his eyes again.

He doesn’t think he’ll be getting any sleep tonight.

Bleary-eyed, he squints once more at his phone screen, looking for something, anything to disrupt the flow of _guiltguiltguilt._

There’s a new notification. He hadn’t even felt his phone buzz. 

**Evan** : im outside

Connor stares at the message in confusion.

That’s _Connor’s_ message, isn’t it? Connor’s message to Evan, sent only a little under an hour ago, when he’d shown up at Evan’s front door like an idiot, at midnight, without giving his _incredibly anxious_ boyfriend any notice, with a stupid list that Connor had stupidly written because Connor is stupid.

Connor had texted Evan, standing outside his front door. And said ‘ _im outside_ ’. It’s Connor message. It’s Connor’s.

He scrolls up a little.

**Connor** : im outside

**Evan** : im outside

Connor carefully extracts himself from his bed, moving as silently as he can so as not to wake his parents. His eyes are narrowed with skepticism, and he doesn’t take his eyes off his phone screen as he slowly pads to his bedroom door, as though expecting Evan to message again saying _just kidding! Also I’m leaving you!_

He holds his bag of Sour Patch Kids protectively to his chest with one hand, and his phone in the other. He pushes open his newly-reinstalled bedroom door as gently as he can, grimacing when it squeaks anyway. He freezes in the doorway and listens, but he hears nothing from his parents’ bedroom.

He creeps down the stairs, using the light of his phone to navigate in the pitch-darkness of the house. Moving slowly, slowly, because he’s trying to be quiet, and he’s also still not 100% convinced that this isn’t some sort of sick joke. Because why? Why would Evan be _here?_

He makes it to the front door, unlocks the deadbolt, and nudges it open, painstakingly slow.

And it’s him.

He’s _here._

Evan fucking Hansen is standing at Connor’s front door. It’s past 1am now, and it’s freezing cold, and Evan Hansen is standing at Connor Murphy’s front door.

He’s panting a little, like he’s been running, and something about that is so endearing that it makes Connor’s heart twist in his chest.

He also looks like he’s been crying. His eyelashes are still wet; the light of Connor’s phone catches them in the dark.

“Hi,” says Evan with a grin, and he’s bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked and looks positively giddy.

For a long moment, all Connor can do is stare at him like an idiot.

Because Evan has been crying, but now he looks happy, really happy, and it’s the middle of the night, and Evan has run all the way to Connor’s house even though Connor has Fucked Everything Up.

He stares and stares, trying to fit all the puzzle pieces together.

Evan quickly gets tired of being stared at however, and launches himself into Connor’s arms, and Connor barely manages to stop them both from toppling over, gripping the door frame with one hand while his other arm snakes around Evan’s waist.

He drops his phone, but clings determinedly to the Sour Patch Kids, still held in a tight fist behind Evan’s back. In the morning, he’ll probably find that funny.

But now all he can think about is. Is…

“What are you _doing_ here?” Connor finally finds his voice, though the words come out strained and uncharacteristically timid.

Evan pulls his face away from Connor’s chest and peers up at him.

“Thought I’d come for a visit,” he says, eyes sparkling with mischief, like he _knows_ he’s broken the rules and he’s damn proud of himself for it. “You said you were grounded, but I’m not, so…”

And Connor can’t help but breathe out a laugh, because he sees this version of Evan so rarely, this vibrant and excitable and confident version, and he just. Loves it so much.

Loves _him_ so much.

“The mechanics of a grounding kind of work both ways though, Ev. You’re not supposed to be here.” Connor keeps his voice low, flicking a cautious look into the darkness of the house to make sure he’s not woken anyone up.

Evan laughs, loudly, and Connor shoots a sharp _“SHHH”_ at him, and Evan presses a fist against his mouth to muffle the sound.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble,” Connor hisses, but he can’t wipe the smile off his face. “I’ve only _just_ gotten my door back, idiot.”

Evan lowers his tone to a whisper. He’s smiling, too.

“Are you saying I can’t come in?”

Connor looks at him, at his hopeful expression and his damp eyelashes and the tip of his nose, red from the cold.

_Fuck it._

Connor grabs Evan’s forearm, retrieves his phone from the ground and, still juggling the candy, yanks Evan into the house.

“Quiet,” he mouths, and Evan nods.

They sneak upstairs, flinching at every creak of the floorboards, pausing to glance at each other conspiratorially in the inky blackness. Connor has to bite his tongue to stop from breaking out into childish giggles at it all.

They make it to Connor’s room, and Connor carefully shuts the door behind them, then turns to face Evan, who’s sitting on Connor’s bed, perched on the very edge.

“It wasn’t you,” Evan says immediately. He keeps his voice low now that they’re inside, with Larry and Cynthia just a few doors down. “I need you to know that it. Um. Wasn’t _you_.”

He says it so insistently, but Connor doesn’t understand.

“Um.” Connor says.

“I mean,” Evan jumps to explain, “that like…when I told you that I didn’t know why you. Um. What you love about me? It wasn’t because…I mean, you didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t that you’ve like. Made me feel unloved or anything? It was just. Me. Anxiety brain. I think…I think I just…”

“Have a really shitty sense of self-worth?” Connor offers, and Evan lets out a little huff of laughter.

Connor crosses the room and takes Evan’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “I mean, same,” he admits, and Evan laughs again. Then takes a deep breath.

“I just…I wanted to…”

Connor doesn’t interrupt this time. He drags his thumb over Evan’s knuckles in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. His hands are freezing. Automatically, Connor takes the hand and presses it between both his palms, squeezing, trying to transfer his body heat to Evan.

Evan stares down at his own hand, trapped between both of Connor’s, and takes another breath as he tries to find the right words.

“I wanted to tell you…I just. The list was just. Incredible. Nobody’s ever…” he trails off, then gives a frustrated little sigh at his own broken sentence.

He takes yet another enormous breath, and pushes onward.

“I wanted to give you my list. My list for you. I’m…more of a talker than a writer, and more of a rambler than a talker, I guess, but I wanted to—”

Connor finally interrupts.

“You know that’s not why I did it, right? I didn’t expect you to—”

“No, I know,” Evan says firmly. “I know. But I want to.”

Evan’s looking up at Connor, who’s still standing as he squeezes Evan’s hand, his phone and his candy tucked awkwardly under one arm. He’s looking up at Connor like this is important to him, like _Connor_ is important to him.

“OK,” Connor breathes, “OK.”

And then Evan’s getting up from the bed and pulling his hand away, and moving to the farthest corner of Connor’s room. He sits on the floor, criss-cross applesauce, and faces the corner, like he’s a naughty child putting himself into timeout.

“Sorry, I just. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to say all of this properly if you’re looking at me,” says the back of Evan’s head.

And Connor fights back more laughter because it’s so ridiculous and cute and just so _Evan._

“OK,” says Connor. He sits on the floor, too, mirroring Evan’s pose, in the opposite corner of the room. Looks at the back of Evan’s head. “OK, I’m comfy. Go.”

“OK, so. Firstly, and you like. Need to understand that this is definitely not in order of importance or anything. But you’re honestly the most physically beautiful person I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Connor suddenly very much appreciates that Evan isn’t looking at him, because he feels his entire face heat in a furious blush.

“You’re like. Fuck. I could write lists for days about all the beautiful parts. You’re just. You’re really fucking pretty, Connor. Your eyes and your hair and your smile and your _cheekbones_ , Jesus _Christ._ I look at you and I have no idea why you would settle for someone who’s. Who’s just. Well. Me.”

And Connor doesn’t like that. Not at all.

The Sour Patch bounces off the back of Evan’s head before Connor even registers he’s thrown it.

Evan gives a little squeak of surprise, glancing around on the floor until he finds the source of the impact.

“What…Why did you--?”

“You just can’t…say shit like that about yourself. I don’t like it when you…” Connor’s voice dies away. He’s not sure how to really articulate the feeling, the crushing weight he feels in his stomach every time Evan puts himself down.

“It…hurts,” Connor finishes, rather pathetically. Mentally kicks himself.

“Oh,” says the back of Evan’s head, very quietly.

“Oh. OK.”

He continues.

“OK, well. You’re also the most…the most passionate person. You care so much about so many things, and so many people. And when you care about something, you _actually_ care about it, so deeply that sometimes you…suffer for it. You don’t half-ass anything. A lot of people don’t see that about you. But it’s amazing. It’s beautiful.”

Connor feels tears stinging the corners of his eyes.

But then Evan adds, “It’s more beautiful than I could ever hope to—” and Connor lobs another Sour Patch at him.

Evan swallows, laughs a little, “OK. OK, I get it.”

He exhales shakily.

“You also…you’re really intelligent. You pick up information so quickly, and I guess that’s tied into how passionate you are? Because if you care about something you just…soak it up like a sponge, like you want to learn everything about it, and that’s just…that’s so admirable, you know? I love that about you. And you’re creative. And talented. I’ve seen your art, Connor, and it’s just. Unbelievable. You’re such an amazing artist. I’m not really good at anything, so—”

Connor throws another piece of candy at him.

He’s quite proud of the fact that he’s managed to hit Evan square in the back of the head every time so far.

Evan has begun to snicker.

“Wait…what is this? Are you like. Training me? Like a dog?

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether or not it’s working.”

Evan shakes his head, that little _oh my god, Connor_ gesture that Connor knows too well.

“I mean. I could keep going all night, really. But um. In summary, you’re just. You’re _everything_ , Connor. That’s maybe…a bit much. I dunno. Maybe that’s weird to say after only like…really knowing you for four months but. I just _know._ I just… _do._ ”

Connor’s heart swells to breaking point, hearing his own words tumble out of Evan’s mouth without the tiniest hint of hesitation, because Connor knows too.

He just _does_.

He finds himself crawling towards Evan, sneaking up behind him, because he suddenly just needs to be close to Evan, he _needs_ to. He needs the comfort of Evan’s touch and he’s sick of looking at the back of Evan’s head, and he really really really wants to kiss him.

“I just _do,_ ” Evan repeats, “Even though I don’t deserve you, at all, I just—”

And that won’t do. That whole _I don’t deserve you_ bullshit.

Connor is very close to Evan now, almost sitting directly behind him as he contemplates an appropriate consequence.

Grinning wickedly, Connor upends the entire bag of candy onto Evan’s head.

Sugar spills absolutely everywhere, and Evan squawks in indignation as he swivels to face Connor with a look of outrage, and Connor’s laughing, and Evan’s laughing, and then they’re both shushing each other and laughing laughing laughing. Evan scoops a handful of candy from Connor’s floor and hurls it at him, and Connor retaliates by trying to scoop some floor-sugar down the back of Evan’s neck, and the whole candy fight is kind of weird because their shrieks and giggles are on whispered breaths, and they’re both still kind of crying a little, too. Evan pins Connor to the ground, candy in both hands, and makes like he’s going to try and shove it down Connor’s sweatpants. But it’s a fake out, and then Evan is kissing him for all he’s worth, and Connor kisses back just as urgently, it’s all sliding lips and tongues and the taste of citric acid.

But Connor’s mouth isn’t stinging anymore.

They end up spooned together in Connor’s bed, warm and giggly and closer than close. Connor’s arm is wrapped tightly around Evan’s waist, and he feels the comforting rise and fall of Evan’s stomach against his wrist. He presses a kiss to the back of Evan’s head, and his lips end up gritty and sweet. 

“You’ve still got sugar in your hair,” Connor murmurs, his mouth just barely brushing the back of Evan’s neck. The skin there tastes like sugar too, but Connor’s not convinced it’s because of the candy.

“Yeah, who’s fault is that?” Evan responds, indignant and huffy and _too loud considering his parents are just down the hall,_ and Connor shushes him through stifled giggles.

He gives a long-suffering sigh, but Connor hears the smile in it.

Evan scoots backwards, as though trying to wriggle closer to Connor, even though there’s not a hair’s breadth between them. The motion creates some…interesting friction between Evan’s butt and Connor’s crotch, and Connor bites down hard on the inside of his cheek to prevent an extremely embarrassing noise from escaping.

“You’re gonna get ants,” Evan’s whispering, and then his soft, breathy laughter starts up again. “You’re gonna get ants in your bedroom because of my _hair._ That’s just…that’s so ridiculous.”

Connor chuckles a little, too, but it dies away when Evan shuffles backwards again, and Connor holds his breath and thinks the unsexiest thoughts he can.

“You can have a shower in the morning, wash it out. We’ll have to—”

Evan squirms, pushes back against Connor again.

“We’ll, um…have to sneak you past my parents but…um…”

Evan won’t keep still.

“…but. Um…”

Connor’s pretty sure his brain is beginning to liquefy. Evan’s still moving.

“Fucking _stop that,_ ” Connor hisses. The hand around Evan’s waist drops to his hip and squeezes in an attempt to hold him still.

“Stop what?”

Evan’s all wide-eyed innocence, and for a moment Connor almost believes it. But there’s a hint of something sly, something mischievous in his voice, and Connor realizes too late that _Evan knows exactly what he’s doing._

“You little shit,” Connor chokes out, laughing breathlessly.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Evan, my parents are _down the hall._ And you’re not supposed to _be here.”_

Evan wriggles his hips again, this time in a deliberately slow movement, and the little moan that Connor’s been holding back finally slips out. Evan smirks.

“I take back everything I said. I actually hate you. I’m taking my list back,” Connor says.

“It’s hidden,” whispers Evan conspiratorially. “Somewhere secret where you’ll never, ever find it.”

Connor thinks for a moment.

“It’s in your meds box, isn’t it?”

“Shit.”

Connor snickers.

He’s still squeezing Evan’s hip.

“Not now,” Connor whispers to him, mouth too close to his ear. “Later. Tomorrow. When my parents aren’t around.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

“Good.”

They lapse into a cozy silence. Connor nuzzles his face into Evan’s neck.

“Did you know,” he mumbles, suddenly feeling a little sleepy, “that Alana Beck does bullet journaling on Instagram?”

“I did not know that,” Evan replies, a smile in his voice. “That’s so Alana, though.”

“Right?” Connor agrees.

There’s a pause, and then Evan says, “You never go on Instagram?” With an upward inflection, like it’s a question.

Connor gives a little non-committal hum of agreement, then quietly admits, “I needed the distraction tonight, I guess. I was so sure the list was…really fucking stupid. I thought you were gonna hate it. I was freaking out.”

Evan doesn’t respond for a long time, and Connor begins to wonder if he’s fallen asleep. His breathing is deep and even and slow. Connor jolts a little in surprise when he finally answers, so soft Connor barely hears him.

“It’s weird, but…the period. The period was my favorite part. At the end. It just reminded me that you’re…you’re my end point. You’re the finish line. You’re…you’re _it_. I don’t want anything else. Just you. Just this.”

Connor presses a kiss to Evan's sugary hair and silently agrees.


End file.
